


Stags do, but they probably shouldn't.

by FallingFaintly



Series: Do we? Of course we do. [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Human Disaster Cormoran Strike, Idiots in Love, Jiminy Polworth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29119008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingFaintly/pseuds/FallingFaintly
Summary: Strike returns from weekend on the lash in Cornwall, slightly less in control of himself than normal...
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Do we? Of course we do. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154387
Comments: 30
Kudos: 54





	Stags do, but they probably shouldn't.

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt from Bettys Blend - silly ficlet in which Strike is driven batty by hearing Polworth-Style comments about Robin in his head all day. Worked hard to keep it in character, because we know Strike works pretty hard to be respectful, but he also fancies the arse off her and isn't a eunuch, so...

Strike hauled himself into his little kitchen, his head throbbing so hard he felt it necessary to try and recall if he’d actually injured it at some point. It was possible - he had been steaming drunk on the stag-do in St Mawes. But for that reason he knew this was really an entirely self inflicted agony. He stood leaning against the small worktop, waiting for a wave of nausea to subside so he could bend down and see what he had in the fridge. Vegan bacon, unopened, and a foil tray of beef chow mein that he remembered picking up on the way home with the rest of a chinese, and somehow being compos mentis enough to put what was left in the fridge. He wasn’t sure what had happened to the rest of it.

With limited options, and experience telling him fat, carbs and protein were part of the route back from feeling like death warmed up, he pulled the tray out of the fridge and ate it, cold, still leaning against the fridge, waiting for his Typhoo to steep to a suitably dark tan.

Once he’d got the food and tea down him, he began to feel a little more human, and he dressed himself slowly which required more concentration than usual because his head was still clouded with pain. As he hoisted his trousers up, a hazy memory refocused and he winced at it. He, Polworth, and two of the other men who had been on the mother of all benders, had mooned at a coach load of tourists which was pulling away after a day trip.

This had been the night before last. The session had lasted well into the dawn and Strike had somehow managed to catch a train home, though the details were still foggy.

Given that he had made it home, he reasoned he hadn’t embarrassed himself still further on the train, but as he made his way downstairs, other details of the stag started filtering through. 

He remembered the stupid t-shirts Polworth, as best man, had brought along, bearing a picture of the groom, Owen Rosewall, clothed in a pink bra and looking rather the worse for wear in some teenage revelry. Strike had got away with not wearing one because they were too small.

No one was in the office yet when he unlocked the door, which closed too loudly for his tender head, and the noise snapped another memory into focus - the blue window frames of The Rising Sun behind him as the doors clattered shut. The entire party had been thrown out because one of Owen’s friends Sean, a lad from Portscatho whom Strike couldn’t recall the surname of, no matter how hard he tried, decided to prove his genitalia was big enough to reach the bottom of a pilsner glass.

This memory didn’t make Strike wince; instead he began to chuckle mischievously, remembering he’d felt quite smug about his own chances of hitting the bottom of the glass. He settled into his chair for a minute, leaving the door to the inner office open.

Polworth had been his usual self, ribbing Strike about a red-head in black jeans that were laced together at the sides, which had set off her rather distracting backside. 

“Fancy a redhead with a nice arse then, Diddy?” He said, clapping Strike on the shoulder. Strike, still smiling, rubbed his jaw ruefully as he remembered Polworth walking past her and slapping her bum as he went. When she had riled up at the unwanted attention, Polworth had held both hands up to his shoulders in mock innocence and pointed over at Strike, as though it was plausible for Strike to have reached from that distance.

Strike was still in the bleary fog of memory and headache, and hadn’t registered Robin come in and hang up her coat until he saw that she had bent over to pick up her scarf which had slipped to the floor.

_ I wish I could reach that from here _ , he thought, pursing his lips at the sight of Robin’s bum in one of her smart, chic skirts. She straightened up and turned, and he blinked into reality, startled at his train of thought and mildly horrified that he had indulged it. She didn’t seem to have noticed, and her greeting was as cheery as normal.

“Good trip?” She asked, well aware of where he’d been. “Sorry, too loud?” She added, misreading the reason Strike had screwed his eyes shut while he nodded. She couldn’t know it was because he was trying to stop his eyes from settling on the blouse pocket that lay over her left breast, that somehow seemed to form an arrow to where her nipple might be.

_ Pull your fucking self together. _

“Nah, ‘m just a bit tired,” he demurred. She didn’t seem convinced, a wry smile curling her lips. She sat down and her eyebrow quirked at him.

“Yes, I hear stag dos can be quite energetic, I’m sure you threw yourself into it,” she grinned. 

_ I’d like to throw myself into you energetically… _

Strike’s eyes widened as he heard his thought, like Polworth had somehow become a Jiminy Cricket on his shoulder. He sat forward, putting his elbows on his desk and looking towards the window in an attempt to collect himself.

“Yeah, we, er, had a few bevvies,” he said, a little absently.

“Want another one?” Robin asked, nodding towards the empty mug on his desk.  _ Too bloody right, I’d like another… _ this time he managed to cut off the thought that threatened to bubble up before it was fully formed.

“Yes!” He said, rather too emphatically. Robin, still smiling slightly, also frowned curiously, that cute little furrow between her eyebrows telling him she had picked up something odd in his manner.

_ Calm the fuck down you prat. _

“Yeah, I need all the caffeine I can get,” he said, by way of inadequate clarification.

She took the mug from his desk, and he heard her pottering about with the kettle, giving him a long pause to get his head back in the space he normally kept it round Robin, which was firmly in the ‘best mates, we are best mates and colleagues, nothing more, nothing less, best mates is great, keep your eyes up and don’t perv’ place.

_ Yeah, like you don’t want to bang her over the desk like a pneumatic drill.. _

Jiminy Polworth seemed determined not to go quietly.

“For fuck’s sake,” Strike muttered, rubbing his hand forcefully over his forehead, as though he could erase the image that had just bounded into his mind’s eye.

“D’you need some painkillers,” Robin said, standing opposite his desk holding two mugs, startling him. He flicked his eyes from her down to the desk, but he’d been unsuccessful in erasing the image, and the reality of Robin in front of him had done nothing to assist him. He pushed himself up and out of his chair like the desk was on fire.

“No, I don’t,” he snapped.

“All right, I was just asking,” she pouted, distinctly unimpressed with his erratic rudeness. “It’s not my fault you clearly got totally arseholed”

_ Please don’t talk about arses, _ his natural gallantry attempted to reassert itself over his inner Polworth.

“I know,” he said, incredibly annoyed at his errant libido which was apparently still on a long leash after the stag. He was desperate to rein it again and manage not to piss Robin off anymore.

_ Although when she’s angry she looks like she could go like the clappers… _

“Jesus  _ wept _ ,” he exclaimed, bringing both of his big hands up to his head and clutching them behind it.

Robin put the mug directly down on his desk, a little sulkily, and returned to her own, where she seemed to decide not to engage Strike further. He unclutched his hands, took a heaving breath in, looked up, and then put his hands on the desk and let his head fall forward.

“Sorry,” he said, into his chest. “You’re right, I’m hungover and that’s my own issue.”

Robin rolled her eyes, but he saw her expression soften.

“It’s fine. It’s not like it’s the first time, and it’s not like I don’t know what it feels like,” she smiled, and he was soothed by her kindness. “You just don’t have to take it out on me.”

_ Tell you what I’d like to take out on you… _

“Oh,  _ bollocks _ !” He shouted at himself, before feeling he had no choice but to grab his coat as he stomped out, determined to stay out long enough to banish Jiminy Polworth and work out how the fuck he was going to ride this one out.

_ Ride, eh? _

“Shut up!” He shouted as he disappeared down the stairs, leaving Robin sat, opened mouthed, holding her mug stalled halfway up.


End file.
